


a little piece of hope holding us together

by amyelouise



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M, Gillovny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyelouise/pseuds/amyelouise
Summary: Two strings speak in sympathy





	1. looking for a moment that'll never happen

**Author's Note:**

> Although these are real people, this is purely fiction.
> 
> Enjoy! X

His manager tells him the news through a somber email and for the first time in weeks, he briefly feels something. Anger. He feels angry that after everything they'd been through, all the years of fights and laughter, tears and kisses, she still didn't have the courage to tell him that she'd moved on.

His whiskey tumbler smashes against the wall as fury courses through his veins, and as it shatters he feels his heart mimic the glass shards inside his chest. He screams but nothing can break the numb shell surrounding the man he used to be.

He stares blankly at the white wall and thinks about her soft curved body resting next to his in bed, the steady rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps soundly. He remembers their last night together, and how extraordinarily ordinary it had seemed. 

He never saw it coming. And since that night two months ago, he hasn't seen her at all. 

He woke to the smell of fresh coffee brewing, but an empty apartment. Her clothes that were in his wardrobe non-existent, the pile of her little shoes next to his door, gone. He'd sent her a text, and she'd replied almost instantly.

_I'm sorry David. I love you, but don't call me._

He flops down onto his chair, eyeing the broken glass surrounding him, wondering what it would feel like to walk across them barefoot. At least it would feel like something.

So there'd been someone else, and in the end, he'd won. He was the one who cuddled up to her at night, who saw the way her nose scrunched when she laughed, the one who could wiggle her toes as they stuck out from under the covers, the one who could kiss her, love her, marry her.

He feels sick at the thought, and for a while, he closes his eyes and breathes through his nose until his nausea settles. 

He wonders how long this will go on for, how long until he can look at the sky and not ponder whether she too is watching the stars and the planes zoom past, thinking of him. He thinks of her every second, awake or not. His dreams are plagued by memories of their past love, the love he still holds, and the moments when he is awake, he sees her ghost walking through his apartment, or out in the park, smile wide and eyes bright.

He wishes he could hate her for what she has done to him but the truth is he can't. 

He loves her too much.

He loves the way her cheeks blush red when he tells her how beautiful she is, or how her tongue sticks out between her lips when she does the dishes. The way she reads bedtime stories to her kids with him still on the phone so he can wish them goodnight, the way she emits a small squeak when they cuddle on the sofa and she wants him to hold her tighter. 

He loves her so so much.

He wonders how she treats this other man. Does she write little notes on his bananas in biro before she leaves the apartment, so when he goes to pick up a snack he can smile at her wobbly handwriting and endearing words? Does she look into his eyes when they kiss like she's reliving every memory they've ever shared together, only to close her eyes in defeat of the moment, ready to travel the rest of the journey with him?

He doesn't notice he's still crying until he feels the faint slap of tears fall against his hands, and he rubs them together before scrubbing at the skin under his eyes, desperate to wipe away any memory of her. 

He struggles onto his feet and carefully picks the larger pieces of glass into his open palm, walking calmly over to the bin where he disposes of his earlier outburst. He sees a framed picture of them both on the kitchen counter and he grabs it with greedy fingers, his eyes drifting down the photo until they meet their conjoined hands. He stares at the smaller pile of glass shards still lying in the middle of his living room, and then back at the picture of them, not so young and in love, eyes fixed on each other.

That picture was only taken three months ago.

He drops it into the bin, and he sees it glitter as the sun catches the cracked glass protecting the picture. He feels something new now - malice - and he kicks at the bin, delighting at the sound of the glass inside crunching and chipping. He fetches a dustpan and brushes the remainder of the glass off the floor, smiling as he hears it slip into the trash and clash against the picture frame.

"You're dead to me. You're nothing more than trash."

His own voice stuns him in the silence of the room, and he kicks the bin once more, denting the outside, so he does it again, and again, and again, until he reminds himself to ask Melanie to buy him a new one tomorrow.

He walks to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling in his spare room and he imagines the face of her new lover as his fists pound against it in quick succession. He forgoes his boxing gloves and he feels his skin rub raw against the material. 

"Fuck you." He likes the way those words spill from his mouth into his empty apartment, how it feels like ripping off a bandaid, so he shouts it louder. "Fuck you! Fuck you for touching her!" He imagines him tucking her children into bed, sharing goodnight kisses with them, and he punches the bag harder and harder. "Fuck you!" 

He kicks his sofa as he walks past it towards the bathroom, and he pushes a vase that she picked out off the side table until it crashes onto the floor. The flowers he had bought her were still inside but had been dead for weeks. His foot connects with the door of the bedroom they used to share and he feels the wood weaken underneath the tip of his trainers. One more kick and he knew he'd break right through it, but he stops himself, already imagining his daughter's reproachful eyes.

In the shower he puts one hand on the wall to brace himself and the other hand on himself, reliving every moment she was beneath him, atop him, naked against the moonlight or clothed in his baseball sweaters for the very last time. Fuck her, he thinks in his head like a mantra, but it soon turns into I want to fuck her, I want to hold her, I want to tell her everything will be okay in the end, we'll be together again.

He phones Téa after he drinks his last cup of coffee and he asks how Brick is adjusting to his new surroundings. He could barely look after himself, let alone his dog, so he sent him away to live with his children, who he also refuses to spend too much time with. She says he misses his father and he admits to himself that's he's not sure where that man has gone, or if he'll even come back. She tells him to take care and he mirrors the sentiment back to her, already forgetting her words and pouring himself another glass of top shelf whiskey.

He falls asleep on top of the covers, his jeans unbuttoned but still hanging around his thighs, his fingers loosely grasping the neck of an empty bottle of single malt. He dreams of her lips around his and her cold feet between his thighs. He holds her to him so tightly and kisses her back, his hands grasping onto her shoulders as hers roam his chest. 

_"David?"_

He watches her and her eyes are wide and downcast, her jaw open, and he looks down to where she is staring, where his hand is on her arm. He watches as her skin cracks like porcelain under his palm and he withdraws his touch as if he'd just passed his hand through a flame. 

_"David...? It hurts."_

He tries to soothe her with kind words but no sound escapes his mouth, and he watches in horror as the cracks skirt through her skin, across her collarbones and up her delicate neck. He never wanted to break her, he wants to tape her back together and wrap her in bubble wrap. 

_"David... please..."_

He wakes up in a cold sweat and bolts upright as the air escapes his lungs in loud pants, and he looks down to the empty side of his bed where she used to lie. He scrambles to his feet, vision blurred and legs uncooperative, and he stumbles out of his bedroom, with only one thing on his mind.

His hand delves into the trash and he winces as he feels the broken glass snag on his skin, wet and sticky from sweat, but he doesn't relent, digging deeper until he feels the wooden corner of his picture frame between his shaky fingers.

"Gillian. Gillian. I'm so sorry baby."

He cries to himself as he holds their picture, bare and torn, close to his chest, and he weeps for all he has lost, all that he loved. 

He wishes he could hate her for what she has done to him but the truth is he can't. 

He loves her too much.


	2. living in the gap between past and future

Quite a few people have a key to his front door, and yet when it opens softly without a knock, he already knows it's her. The dim sound of her heels being kicked off into the corner only confirms his suspicions.

He keeps his back straight against the sofa and doesn't turn when he hears her faint footfalls travel towards him. He doesn't flinch when he feels her arms wrap around his neck and her nose nuzzle into the back of his ear. Maybe this is a waking dream, he thinks, or a nightmare, sent to haunt him for the rest of his days.

"Hey." Her voice is muffled into his skin and he closes his eyes, trying to keep his anger tucked neatly away. "I think we need to talk." Her lips brush against his neck as she speaks and his eyes snap open as he lurches forward out of her grasp.

"Two months Gillian! Two fucking months and _now_ you think we need to talk? I've been sitting here waiting for you whilst you've been off fucking someone else. Well, fuck you Gillian. I'm not interested. You're two fucking months too late." 

She stands behind the sofa, her head downcast and her teeth worrying her bottom lip. He can see her knuckles whiten as they grasp the back of the couch and he huffs out a mirthful laugh.

"I'm sorry." He smiles and shakes his head, holding his hand above his heart.

"Oh you're _sorry_ , are you?" She chances a glance up at him and her eyes are wet with tears, but he doesn't feel remorse, only happiness because he can see her cry, cry like he's cried. "Like I said: fuck you. Sorry won't cut it this time Gillian." She moves from behind the sofa, her hands wiping her tear stricken cheeks, and he takes a step back for every step she takes towards him. "I don't even want to look at you. I want you to leave." 

He forces his legs to walk towards the front door, although he feels so numb he doesn't realise he's arrived at his destination until he's face to face with the doorframe. 

"Please. Let me just talk. Whether you listen is up to you, but I won't leave until I've talked." 

He finds himself sitting on the opposite end of the sofa from her, his hands planted between his knees, and a part of him wonders why he's giving her a second chance after everything she put him through. The other part aches to reach out for her and dry her tears, to curl her into his side as they cry together.

"I'm not dating him. I know the evidence looks contrary, but I'm not. I'm not fucking him either." He nods as he stares numbly forward. He knows this should cool his temper, but anger still has a tight hold on his emotions. "I meant what I said in that text. I love you." He hears her shift on the sofa to face him and he feels the soft pad of her fingers brush against his cheek. "Please, let me hold you."

He stays silent and she takes that as her answer, moving closer to him until her head rests on his shoulder, and she closes her eyes.

"I'm still angry at you." He hasn't moved to fit his arm around her like he normally would and she nods against his skin, swinging her legs over his and depositing herself in his lap. Her hands wrap around his neck and she fits her head onto his chest again, listening to the way his heartbeat speeds up.

"I'd be worried if you weren't. I know saying I'm sorry seems like a redundant phrase, but I truly am sorry. I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have shut you out. I shouldn't have left, or been so quiet. We-" Her voice goes quiet and it's the first time he tilts his head to watch her, her eyes clouded by tears. "We _were_ a team. I should have shared everything with you." 

He caresses her jawline against his better judgement and snatches his hand away, burned by her skin, yet he still settles back into the sofa and takes her with him, holding her waist close to him as she cries silent tears into his t-shirt.

"Tell me why you had to leave." She takes a shuddering breath and he lets her dry her eyes on the neck of his tee, noticing the black smears of mascara left behind. It was dirty to start with but it still bothers him. She's always making a mess.

"Mark." He sucks in his breath and closes his eyes, unbidden thoughts of their limbs wrapped around each other came to his mind. "It's not what you think." Her hand wraps around his wrist and he relaxes his death grip on her waist. "He doesn't like you David. He never has." He nods again and his thumb unconsciously draws circles into the skin above the waistband of her jeans. "He left his girlfriend and wanted to take some of his anger out on me."

"Did he hurt you?" His voice is more worried than he wants it to be and he holds her tighter to him, unconsciously checking her exposed skin for angry red bruises.

"God no. Not like that..." He sighs and relaxes, but not fully; his back is still stiff and his movements jilted as she cuddles into his side. "He wanted to take the boys, said he would take legal action. He was going to use us against me. Say that our relationship was getting in the way of me being an adequate mother, what with the constant flights to the US." He's quiet as he listens to her, some shame flitting over his body as he realises just how troubled she would have been. "I think he was just scared of ending up alone... scared that I'd take the boys and he'd have no one to be with. That's why I had to get away. I didn't want you to get involved and make the situation worse, I wanted to handle it on my own. And I did. It's all better now." Her fingers clutch to his t-shirt and she sniffles loud enough for him to look down at her again and stroke her hair.

"Looking back... I know I should have told you what was happening, so that you wouldn't end up... so that _we_ wouldn't end up like this. There's no excuse for how I cut you out." He looks back to the wall and she can see a tear shimmer in his eye, and she reaches up to brush it away with her thumb but he bats her wrist away from him and shakes his head.

"Don't." She nods to herself and moves her hand back to her lap, wishing she could think of the right words to fix what she had broken.

"If it's any consolation, it wasn't easy not being able to talk to you, to just pick up the phone and hear your voice. I thought so many times about calling you but the later I left it the more scared I was about calling." He stands up and her arms reach out for him but he steps out of her grasp, walking towards the wall where he'd thrown his whiskey tumbler a week before. 

"It's not. Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?" He doesn't look at her so she lets out a quiet and shaky 'no' as she fiddles with her thumbs. "Jesus Christ Gillian. You said it yourself, we were a team!" His voice breaks into a sob and she deliberates on the sofa for a few moments before stepping up and wrapping her arms around him quickly and soundly.

His hands grasp onto her wrists and he pushes her away slightly, still holding onto her, and she knows immediately what he's about to do.

"No, don't. David we should talk." His lips roughly find her neck and he clamps his teeth down on her neck, making her cry out, her body unable to escape. 

"I don't want to talk to you." She nods as his tongue laves her skin and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a moan. He knows she wants him and she knows that too, but she'll be damned if she shows him. "I want to fuck you." 

She bites her lip harder until she's scared she'll break the skin, and she feels his knee come between her legs to widen them, his hands leaving her sore wrists and travelling down her sides until they grip her waist hard, pushing her backwards. She whimpers as her back hits the wall, and she closes her eyes as she hears his belt unbuckle.

"Tell me you want me to fuck you." His demand is both a blessing and a curse and she reminisces back to dingy nights in her trailer, him saying the exact same words to her after a blowout fight. He wants her to crumble and submit before him, to admit that even after everything he'll still be welcome between her legs, but she knows him well enough to know that there's a soft underbelly to his words, that he wants to know that he truly wouldn't be hurting her. 

A single tear drips down her cheek and he moves out of the space between her thighs, anxious, turning his back to her and shuffling his feet. She slumps against the wall and let's out a soft sob, covering her mouth with her palm.

"If you want to fuck me, you can. If you think that will make you feel better, if you think it will fix something, then do it." She sees him tilt his head slightly towards her, a sign he's listening, and she wipes her eyes once more, strengthening her voice. "But you and I both know, it will do the opposite. Don't ever think that I don't want you. I will always want you. But right now, what I want more is to talk to you. To fix this the right way.

"We've spent too many goddamn years fucking away our problems and I'll be damned if I let it happen to us this time. Talk to me David. Talk to me about this." She steps towards him and this time he doesn't flinch as her hand encloses around his arm. "Talk you me please." 

She can see the tears glistening in his eyes as he opens his arms to her, welcoming her into his chest and trapping her there, unwilling to let her leave once more. She kisses the sweet skin of his neck and he dips his chin, resting it on the top of her head. She's so small as she stands barefoot in his apartment and he's reminded of how natural it feels for her to be there.

"I wanted to hate you so much. I wanted to hate you for everything that you'd done to me, for leaving me, for ignoring my calls, for... being with someone else." He moves his hand to squeeze her back to silence her protests. "I know you weren't, but I thought you were." He moves from her grasp to walk over to his bookcase, and he picks up the picture of them together, now without a frame, propped up against one of his kids. "That's just it Gillian, even after everything..." He strokes the side of the photograph and she smiles at the memory of it being taken, watching him from a safe distance. "I could only love you. I think that's our problem, after all the shit between us, we could only ever love each other." She coughs out a laugh though her eyes are cloudy and looks towards the view of NYC through his large window. 

"What a dysfunctional couple we make." He places the photograph down with one last glance and looks at her, standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room. He takes a couple of steps towards her and she meets him in the middle, his hands moving to frame her cheeks. 

"I'm still fucking pissed at you." She smiles through her tears but looks down at her toes self consciously. His finger hooks underneath her chin and she drags her gaze up his chest to meet his eyes. "But I love you. I love you so much." She nods and he brushes his lips against hers in the lightest of kisses. "You're right. We should talk. We should work through this like normal people would." 

Her hand finds his and she clasps onto it with a strength she hasn't found in months, and he feeds off it like a starving man. He begins walking but he bypasses the sofa and she can see him heading towards the open door to his bedroom, dragging her behind him

"Daaavid..." He stops in his tracks and looks down to her, pushing an errant piece of hair behind her ear.

"I know. I know. I promise we'll talk. There's just one thing I want to do first." He smiles at her and she can see in his eyes that he only wants to love her, that their joining would not involve hate, only relief and longing. "It's been two months." His lips press themselves against her forehead as she looks to the open door, and he strokes the back of her head with his hand, waiting for her signal. 

She tilts her head upwards towards him and his lips descend on hers, kissing and nipping, pushing their way inside, drinking from her, tasking everything she was offering and more. She breaks for air first and smiles as she walks ahead, pulling him along.

"A very long two months."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title, chapter titles and description are all lyrics from "Love And Anger" by Kate Bush. I strongly recommend you listen to the song, or at least read the lyrics!
> 
> I never thought I'd actually write a Gillovny fic where they had broken up, because it makes me too sad, and yet, here I am, basing it all on half-truths.
> 
> In all seriousness, Gillovny is alive! I believe it, and even if they're not, I'm very happy to sit in my imaginary world where they are still together. Don't let PM get you down! He's irrelevant ;-)
> 
> Have a beautiful day, I love you all.


End file.
